


Aston Martins and Dog-Eared Books

by fkmoore



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-03 06:55:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fkmoore/pseuds/fkmoore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To most of the student body James Bond--conveniently known as Mr Mallory, or Mr "M"--is a confusing teacher. He's good fun when he wants to be, but he's firm and maybe that makes him a good teacher. Whether he's well liked or not is a different story, he never appears to have any personal relations to any of the other teachers despite having worked at the school for a long time, and rumours have been floating through the school that he's actually a secret agent. A British spy. Ex-MI6.</p><p>Benjamin Q. Wiltshire has joined Lawrence Sheriff Sixth Form. This in itself is a mean feat--being the top school in the country--but to have come from a dilapidated secondary school in East London, even more so. To him, James Mallory is far from confusing, he's fascinating. Smart, handsome, damaged in his own ways, Benjamin thinks he might just be in love with him.</p><p>For "norsegodshavemorefun" on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Starched Collars

The day was beginning again, yet another day, the same old routine and James was fast growing weary of it. He got out of bed as the alarm sounded—he was used to doing things instantly, never an extra five minutes, five minutes late might mean, well, it didn’t bear thinking about—and, on bare feet, he padded silently towards the bathroom. Every morning he noticed that his limp had gone, he noticed how he didn’t need the cane anymore, and yet every morning he’d take it with him. The students saw him with it, they knew him with it and he was not about to change that. Everything was just _fine_ as it was—the thought was bitter, and the words on his tongue even bitterer still. Nothing was fine, he knew that, it seemed that the very walls of this homey flat were mocking him, they knew it, too they knew that he longed for the life he had once known. 

He walked tall, wide awake, away from the mirror where a man he did not recognise looked back at him—who was this man in his demure suits? Where was the sharp black on white? The pristine, starched collars? The man of years past was becoming nought but a memory. This man had deeper lines around his eyes, the lines on his forehead had deepened with worry, all in all, he was a different man--though, in actuality, he looked very much the same to how he used to look. The coffee was hot on his tongue, the same as it always was, James Bond too impatient to wait for it too cool, desperate for the caffeine to give him that kick in the backside he needed to drag himself out of the house and continue on with the charade.

James thought about jacking it all in a lot of the time, he thought about going back to MI6 and letting that be that, they would welcome him back with open arms and ask him what kind of shenanigans he had gotten up to in his time off, what enemies he had thwarted, it was al very well and good, really, and they still hadn't stopped his paycheques (not that they would, realistically it would be an awfully bad idea to stop them with the sliver of a chance he might still be alive, another agent might spill those secrets to another government and such, James knew all this quite well, thank you).

He avoided the mirror in the hallways, slipped the house keys into the briefcase on the side and grasped the cane, hooking it over his forearm, and left the house.

The drive was smooth as it ever was, he’d often been asked by his colleagues how he could afford such a car, such a luxury on their salary, and he would shrug his shoulders. He’d worked at Lawrence Sheriff on and off for the past decade, give or take a couple years, it was his go-to when things got rough, it was his go-to when things were complicated, and things had become complicated. As he drove he fumbled around, one hand pulling open the glove compartment, throwing a pill into his mouth (he swore that he could still feel the pain) and then, lazily, he pulled into his parking space, printed with _J. Mallory_ —he had always wanted to be “M”.

* * *

 

 ‘Class. Homework.’

He called, hobbling in on his cane to drop the bag on the desk at the front—the word was accompanied by a chorus of groans and excuses, complaints and all manner of things. They all had it regardless and for that he could only be thankful, many other teachers had it worse, even in this school, but he knew why, he had heard the rumours. _Mr. Mallory was a secret agent, he was a spy, he’d come from MI6 and, did you know-- know what? An agent has to be armed at all times. Really? I bet he carries a gun._ He did. But that was none of their business. His fingers moved to the buttons of his blazer and he pulled, being sure they were secure.

They came one after the other and placed their work on the table in front of him, packets and packets of things to read, some thicker than others. They were, what, seventeen, he couldn’t remember exactly, and yet there was still no word limit. James loved to read, but half of these were, well, boring, but such was life.

He’d scribbled his lesson on the board behind himself, avoiding all the technology he could for the moment, and he’d sat himself down to let them get on with it. _Best school in the country_ , he thought to himself, flicking through the top piece of homework, Mark Wraysford, _Well, Mr. Wraysford, you’re never going to be a writer._

‘Othello,’

He called out,

‘Read acts three and four, compare them to the first act.’

The students looked at each other in slight confusion. Apparently today was not to be a good day from Mr. Mallory, a man who prided himself, in this part of his life, on being, at least, an interesting teacher, a man with better relationships with his students than with any of the teachers, or that any of the teachers can compare to. So they did not complain, and they read. Save for one. One that took it upon himself to scrape his chair against the hardwood floor and cross towards him.

James had seen him before, he’d only joined recently, this year, in fact, and that was strange enough. He’d come from a state school, one of the grey, linoleum floored ones in London, he had heard, but the boy was a genius, in some respects, his mathematics and his IT were exemplary, often correcting the teachers, but here, in his class, he was little better than the rest. The boy was skittish, scrawny and very much out of place. James did not look up and the boy did not speak.

‘What is it Benjamin?’

People had taken to calling him by his full name here, back in London they’d all called him _Ben_.

‘Uh.. sorry to bother you, sir, but..’

And Benjamin licked his lips, glance darting across the room—James had noticed it to be a habit of his, he could not keep still, he could not focus on one thing at a time, always looking around, like a deer. Like prey. His mouth was dry and he had to clear his throat,

‘I don’t have a book.’

‘You’ll have to sha—‘

James looked up, and he sighed. The boy didn’t have anybody sitting beside him. A look of slight irritation crossed his face and he passed his own copy to him.

‘Detention at lunch. Fifteen minutes, an hour if you don’t get a book by the next class.’

The boy took the book slowly, hovered for a moment, eyes on his teacher and, furiously fighting the flush that had threatened to rise on his cheeks, he nodded, turning on his heel to scurry back to his seat in the back corner.

‘And I’ll want you sitting down at the front next class, too.’

Every now and then James looked up from the kids’ homework, red pen in hand, to look over the class of silent boys.

 

* * *

 

 

Benjamin had been watching his teacher for some time, he had watched the way his fingers twitched at the blazer, keeping it close, keeping it closed, he had watched the  way the man’s eyes moved over the class and he could see the weariness in them, it was something he had seen many times before and in various different people, from different walks of life. But why in James Mallory? He seemed to have it set. He had a goddamned Aston Martin to drive around, and a classic, too, he’d overheard the other teachers talking about it. There was something fascinating about James Mallory.

He was a good student, all-round prodigy, he was better than most at almost everything, but he was lacking in English Literature, he forgot his books, he failed his assignments, and it was not for lack of knowledge—in fact, Othello was a definite favourite of Benjamin’s, he could probably have recited the play word-for-word, and backwards—but it was for the need to watch his teacher.

It was a study, he told himself, a simple curiosity, but a little voice in his head laughed at him, the voice told him that he knew the truth. Benjamin Q. Wraysford pushed the voice away, ignored it, if he did not acknowledge the things it was saying to him then, of course, he would have no need to think about them, no need at all to think about how true they might ring, how glad he was that the man was, for all intents purposes, uninterested in most of the school—students and teachers.

‘Yes, thank you, Sir.’

He took the book from the man’s hands, held on a little too long, hovered a little too long, and turned on his heel, scuttling back to his seat.

The book lay open in front of him for the next hour and a half, his eyes more on James than on the browning paper, though every now and then he flicked through it, he read through the man’s notes, he wondered when they were written and, in some small way, this was another part of him. This was, maybe, a small look into James’ past, into his school years?

He wanted to know more. And he would.


	2. You’ll sooner blow it up.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James is missing the MI6 and Benjamin's car is not doing so well.

As Benjamin left he managed to catch the eye of his teacher, and he held it, for as long as he could, despite the small flush in his cheeks, and only when it was obvious that the stare had been longer than it should have, he turned. In a flurry he was gone, leaving James utterly perplexed at his desk. The teacher narrowed his eyes at the empty doorway and pushed himself to stand, cane back in his hand, and he crossed towards Benjamin’s desk, gathering his book up again.

The next class passed without incident, without care, and yet he found himself distracted by the look that had been in the boy’s eye, it was expectant, as if he was just waiting for something, something to happen, waiting to say something, do something, James wasn’t entirely sure, by the end of the fourth lesson—though he didn’t teach anything between 12:15pm and 1:15pm—he had begun to wonder just why he cared. There was no shaking that look from his mind, piercing blue eyes the flush of pink slight on the boy’s cheeks, tops of his ears red, peeking out from his hair. The more James thought on it the more he could remember and the more he wondered. If truth be told, he had seen that look before, many times, and he knew just what it was, but this was a young boy, a student, legal by the skin of his teeth, though still very much off-limits for a teacher—but was he really a tea—

James cut himself off from those thoughts as a knock came at his door, there was only one person he was expecting and he had arrived. The man grunted and called for him to enter, while usually a detention might be in a classroom, James had only one and so his office would have to do. The boy entered and he looked him over, almost wondering if he might see that look again, but there was nothing, yet. He pointed to a small table across from him,

‘Sit. Have you started the essay yet?’

Benjamin sat, and he shook his head, looking slightly worried, and with good reason, the first draft of the essay was due at the end of the week, the final the end of the next, James’ lips pressed together and he nodded a little bit, ignoring the boy’s meek apology.

‘Why not, Benjamin? You know that it counts for at least thirty percent of your marks.’

‘Look. Yes. I know. Sir. I know, sir, but I’ve been.. I was focusing on the other ones. And I lost the book.’

‘Just as well that you have some time now, isn’t it?’

James slid the book across his desk and gave it a one-fingered tap, placing some plain, lined paper on the top of it, as well as a pen, he didn’t trust that the boy had brought his own,

‘I want an introductory paragraph, at least. And a good one, too.’

James turned back to his newspaper, opening it up and out in front of his face, blocking the boy off from looking at him, and, well, stopping himself from looking at the boy. He had spent the last few hours thinking about a particular look that a student, a child, had given him. He was a child, he was nothing more than a child, a child that held himself taller than the others, a child whose eyes held something the others didn’t, a child with maturity, wisdom beyond his years.

* * *

 

James had read the same paragraph at least ten times, his mind whirring with thoughts about the boy that sat on the other side of the paper, and with an inward curse at himself, he let the paper rustle, and he put it down in front of him, staring at Benjamin.

Though he didn’t look up for a moment or two, Ben could feel those eyes on him, he let it linger, he let the man stare and he waited, he liked the way they burned into him and no doubt it was because the man wanted his attention. He forced the little smirk from his lips and glanced up, as if coincidental, and he forced a weak smile,

‘Sir?’

‘You haven’t had a book since we started. Why not?’

Benjamin’s heart sank into his stomach and the smile was replaced with a faint look of dread, he swallowed and lazily shrugged his shoulders, feigning nonchalance, dismissal. James was not buying it, his gaze did not falter and his body did not move, he did not speak, he simply remained put, waiting for the boy to give him the answer he wanted—he vaguely remembered that once upon a time he’d have forced answers out of people, hands around their throat, gun to the balls, and it was a fond thought. Benjamin was silent, they were both silent and the tension in the room was so thick it would have taken a steak knife to break through.

‘I haven’t gotten round to it, Sir.’

James sighed and lifted the paper up again, turning his attention away from the red-faced boy,

‘As you were.’

Benjamin was awfully angry with his teacher and awfully made with himself, he did not understand how the man could just ignore him after that, how he could just put the barricade up between them once more. He stared, burning holes through the paper for a minute, maybe longer, and then he turned back to his work, mind unable to focus on the assignment set, but Benjamin had read many books, he knew what he had to do and he could do it in his sleep, and so his pen glided across the page—his handwriting, he had often been told, was very nice, it was curved and it was neat, legible and quite professional when it came down to it, a far cry from the lazy scrawl James insisted on using on his blackboard, the scrawl that nobody could understand.

As the fifteen minutes were over, and then some, Benjamin placed the pieces of paper, book and pen back onto the man’s desk before turning on his heel and leaving, feather still visibly ruffled by the dismissive nature of his teacher. James did not look up. The boy did not know what he had expected from the older man, whether he had thought that James might talk to him as he would a friend, a colleague, he wasn’t even sure if James had not, he had so scarcely been seen talking to any member of faculty that it was impossible to fathom him having a friend in the world—Benjamin felt a slight pang of sadness for him, but it was brushed away as he stalked away from the office.

The start of the essay was good, but why the boy had left it with him James did not know, perhaps he did not plan to write the thing at all. Benjamin Wiltshire was a good student, he was quiet and unobtrusive, so calm, James thought, that he felt guilty each time he called on the boy to answer a question or had to give him a detention, the little flash of fear and betrayal in the kid’s eyes would do him in one day, he was sure.

* * *

 

James Bond spent the remainder of the day absently telling his last class what they were to do, his mind was a million miles away, he was back in the field, back in the work he loved. But maybe Mallory, the real Mallory, maybe his words rang true way back then, what was it, two years ago? Maybe he was too old now. The students had left and he had not collected their homework, he didn’t care all too much, he had his eyes on the screen of a laptop, his old e-mails up. Really, he hadn’t quit, he just hadn’t turned back up again, finished the mission, dropped off everything he’d needed to and then retired to the school and a small house in the countryside. Every now and then he would do this, he would look at the website, look at his e-mails, think back on his times and the burning desire to dodge speeding bullets and drive recklessly would come back like the fires of hell in his chest.

He closed the laptop, slipped it into a bag and gathered up his cane to hobble out of the building. He squinted against the sunlight as he made his way towards his car—still the same, old beauty, the classic Aston DB5, he loved it more than he’d loved anything, he was sure. His fingers touched the roof, slipped down, and he unlocked the door, throwing his belongings into the space underneath the passenger seat and let the car roar to life.

James was pulling out towards the road when something caught his eye—as much as he’d like to pretend he hadn’t seen it, that guilt would spread through him like wildfire and that was not on, despite the sunshine it was still rather chilly. He reversed, turned and pulled up beside Benjamin. He had the bonnet of the car open, wrist deep in it, thin whirls of smoke rising towards the sky and a look of grief on his face. You’d think his mother had died in there.

‘Problem?’

He asked, leaning out of the open window and Benjamin, who had not turned to look at him, shook his head, waving his hand—he was flustered—dismissing the man.

‘No. Nothing. It’s alright. It’s fine. I’ll fix it.’

‘You’ll sooner blow it and yourself up the way you’re fiddling with it.’

Benjamin’s eyes narrowed and he glared slightly, irritated that the man seemed to have so little faith in his automobile repair skills, though truth be told he was not expertly versed.

‘And what would you do, sir?’

‘Have a professional look at it.’

The boy bit his tongue and turned to face the man in his shiny, classic car, wearing his smart, tailored suit and the expensive, polished watch, and he smiled,

‘Then I suppose I shall have to walk home.’

Benjamin bowed his head slightly and slammed the bonnet of the car shut, picking up his things from the floor, and with that he turned and began walking to the school gates—he had a long walk ahead of him—but he could hear the Aston Martin rolling up beside him and James spoke again, a frown on his lips, making the lines on his face deepen slightly.

‘I can give you a lift.’

‘No, thank you, Mr. Mallory, I will be fine.’

‘I know you live quite far from here, Benjamin. I don’t mind.’

And the boy stopped, resigned and climbed into the car—he _had_ always wanted to go for a drive in a nice car, in this car, he reasoned with himself.

‘Thank you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a particularly exciting chapter, sorry!


	3. I'm coming home.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter. James has driven Benjamin home but finds his mind racing with thoughts about the young boy, things he shouldn't be thinking. He shouldn't allow himself that luxury, and he doesn't.

The car drove beautifully, not a single dip in the road was felt, the cobblestones seemed smoother and, as they drove further out the houses around them began to deteriorate, the state of them grew worse, some with gates hanging off of their hinges, and Benjamin saw James glance at him out of the corner of his eye. The boy sank down into the seat, embarrassed, his right hand touching at his right cheek, shielding half of his face from the other man, and he frowned. If anybody knew the state of the area it was him, after all, he was living in it. His frown deepened, eyebrows knitting in the centre and he had thought, all the way along the drive, about telling him to stop and simply jumping out to walk the rest of the way but that would look awfully ungrateful.

James sighed, finally pulling up to the boy’s residence—Benjamin had directed him in a small, meek voice—and he peered through the windscreen, a flash of pity crossed his face and Benjamin’s jaw tensed. He pushed himself up, straightening and opened the car door. He hesitated. The man had driven him forty minutes from the school just so he didn’t have to make the walk, could he really just up and leave? He swallowed and James felt a question rise in his throat, but he did not speak it, he could guess the answer already.

‘Would you like to come in for a cup of tea, Mr Mallory?’

Benjamin looked at James and James back at him, a small smile on his lips, he was sure that the boy would have liked for him to decline, but at the end of the day he did want to see the inside of the building. The outside was a dirty grey, he could see the paint of the doorframes chipping already and it was a stark contrast to the country lanes that surrounded it, the large, manor houses did not quite dwarf the building but it was definitely out of place here. In London, perhaps, it would have blended in—it was probably the contrast, he thought to himself.

He smiled and gave a small nod,

‘Thank you Benjamin, I would like that.’

With a slightly forced smile, the young boy climbed out of the car, careful not to scratch of scuff anything on the way out, at least, he thought, the ride was good, free of awkward conversation. James had barely asked him anything, rather encouraged him to talk about what the man knew he was good at, his computers and all the things James Bond did not understand—he was sure he still had one of the last Q-Branch gadgets lying around somewhere, now obsolete, he reckoned. The man followed him, motioning his hand for Benjamin to grab the cane from beneath the seat, which he did, and off they went into the building.

The paint was chipped the entire way up the stairs and the walls were flecked with mould, but James seemed not to mind as he made his way up to the third floor with Benjamin at his side—the cane, though held in his hand, was hardly being used, and the boy noticed this.

‘It’s not much, sir, probably nothing like your house, judging by the car, but it’s home for now.’

‘You have no need to defend or explain yourself.’

‘Yeah, well..’

He trailed off and James said nothing of it, only leaning a little more of his weight onto his cane as he entered the little flat. And little it was, very little, in fact, a studio flat in just as bad a disrepair as the building itself and James looked over at the boy, crossed the room and sat himself down,

‘You can keep the book.’

‘I don’t need your charity.’

‘Who’s paying for your school?’

Ben did not answer, instead just flipped on the kettle and began clunking things together in a show of making the tea. James did not push the question and Benjamin did not object when the man put the book onto the nearest surface, he merely turned to glance at it, the same book with James' scribbles, the corners turned down on almost every page and the binding so broken the front and back covers were taped on. He was watching James in the reflection of the glass-door cabinet in front of him, watching the man look around, watching the man watch his back. It was unnerving and the kettle seemed to take a very long time to boil, both of them waiting, but James spoke again.

‘You must have done very well in something to be let into the school, but you must miss London?’

The young boy did not answer, yet again, as he poured the boiling water into the mugs, suddenly very self-conscious of himself, his surroundings, even the brand of tea—he was sure James would use loose leaves, or twinings, or some strange brand he’d never even heard of—and he could feel his chest constricting. He had to set the spoons down, he had to breathe, just to catch his breath, and that he did, disguising it with a throaty cough,

‘Do you take sugar and milk?’

James nodded, _one sugar and a little milk_ , and was passed his mug, his eyes had not left Benjamin, the slight curve of his hips, the dip of his spine above his backside and the sharp jut of collarbones peeking through an open school-shirt. His lips were flushed thanks to nervous chewing and his fingers red, probably bad circultion, but James was staring,

‘It’s just tescos tea, I think, I’m sorry, it’s very good. I have something.. something stronger if you’d like.’

‘No, thank you, Benjamin, I gave up drinking a long time ago.’

 

* * *

 

The tea was finished and the mugs long gone cold, James had pushed himself up to stand with Benjamin’s help, not that he needed it, and he gave him a smile, a hand on the boy’s cheek,

‘You be good. I’ll see you on Monday.’

And with that he left, slipped himself back into his car and drove home with thoughts running wild of the things he could have done, the things he wanted to do but hadn’t, and they tormented him the entire drive home, they tormented him as he entered the large, quiet house, they tormented him as he sat up on his couch, the only light being the glare of the laptop screen. He glanced to his cane and didn’t see it, he could only see Benjamin, he could see the frayed trousers and the soles peeling away from his shoes, he saw the empty cupboards and the dregs of milk he had put back into the miniature fridge and somewhere inside his mind a spark was lit, a spark that had to be quenched and killed. He cared for the young boy in ways he shouldn’t, he wanted him, and he couldn’t have him.

The phone rang as he pressed it to his ear, the clock shining a lazy 3:07am, and his hands were steady as they ever were but his heart was racing, beating so hard he was sure it would burst out of his chest and slam into the opposite wall, but he sank back when the voice answered. For a split second he was unsure on whether he was happy or not.

_‘Who on earth is this? Do you know what time it is?’_

‘M? It’s Bond. I’m coming home.’

 _'Not now you're not.'_

The voice came harsh and irritated, but he smiled and let the phone drop from his ear, cut off, Mallory had hung up on him and he couldn't blame him, he knew he'd be getting a call back in a few hours time, come seven o'clock he'd be jerked awake. And he fell asleep on that couch, his best night's sleep in the past year, James Bond, 007, fell asleep on that couch and he knew, as he drifted off, that he was doing the right thing. _He was going home._ Benjamin's face was imprinted on his lids, as if they were a canvas, but he could no longer fight off the pulls of unconsciousness and he slept thinking of the boy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was kind of rushed. So I'm not too keen on it. I'm sorry. Again. I'll make a better one next time round.


	4. Bond is Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond is back to his old self. Sort of.

James could remember what it was like to care about another person, and he wanted nothing to do with it, nothing to do with Benjamin, with the school, with any of it, he wanted his life back, and maybe he was getting a little too old, maybe these past years on and off had taken a toll on his physical health, it would be nothing to get it all back, of that he was sure.

The drive back to London was not very long, in comparison to some, and he made it back with the entire day to spare. Finding a new house was not particularly hard, any estate agent was happy to make a deal all in one day and all in cash, why would they not be? He found himself in a high-ride building in Canary Wharf, views of the river from his living room window and already he began to feel like his old self. The clothes of his past were discarded, no more woollen jumpers and greying shirts, he was back to the tailored suit, sharp lapels and crisp shirts, a watch, shining, polished, brand new, on his wrist, and shoes clean enough to eat off of.

He hadn’t wanted to spend the day shopping but he had, and come early evening, when the taxi had dropped him off in front of his new home, he was ready to go home, to his real home. He could hardly contain the excitement that built up inside him as he dropped all of his new purchases—a whole wardrobe and kitchen almost—in the flat. M had sent a car for him and it would be driving down the river towards him now, getting closer with every minute that ticked by. He poured himself a drink, wagering that as soon as he started to focus his attentions on something else the car would turn up. A watched kettle never boils, after all, he thought to himself.

Just as he’d thought. There was a call to the flat, the concierge claiming a car had arrived for him and James, with his usual flair, adjusted his tie and skipped out of the house and into the lift. He knew full well that this meeting was to appease him, tomorrow would come the hard work, he would have to prove that he was still up to the job, prove that he could work alongside the governments new youths, keep up with them.

The halls were much as he remembered, the panelling on the walls, the thick, plush carpet that had seen one too many polished black shoe. He did not realise until now how much he had missed the building itself, one of London’s greatest. The doors to either side were a dark oak, some closed to him, some wide open and inviting, but there was only one he was interested in, M’s. A smile came to his lips when he arrived there—escorted by security as he was, at the moment, not an employee, not really—and he knocked before entering. There he stood, just behind his desk as he always was, with a smart, pinstriped suit, braces over his white shirt and a red tie. It was always the same, but now he was a deal older.

‘Bond, what’s the excuse this time? Taliban operatives have learned the “Imperio” charm?’

James smiled, noting how he seemed to have finally immersed himself in popular culture, but he shook his head,

‘No, Sir, no excuse this time.’

M made a face of mild surprise—though he was never truly surprised—and nodded. He sat himself down and looked up at James over steepled fingers—who then sat down opposite him. M hummed quietly and seemed to be examining James, looking over him with a careful eye, scrutinizing every single part of him, but the way he leaned back in his chair suggested he found nothing wrong.

‘You’ll report at seven o’clock tomorrow morning for your physical and psychological exams, and we’ll see what happens after that.’

‘Yes, Sir.’

The meeting was short, hardly a meeting at all, something only to make James Bond feel better about himself and for M to assess his general disposition, and all seemed well.

\---------------------------------------

The school day was long and arduous and Mr. Mallory was nowhere to be found. Benjamin was upset, angry, all manner of things, that the man would simply leave without a word, there had been no assembly, no goodbye. Where he could have gone was anybody’s guess and the school thrummed with Military Intelligence rumours. As the school week drew to a close Benjamin had a plan, an idea, it was risky and, for all he knew, bound to fail.

Friday evening came and he sat in the dark of his bedroom, the computer screen the only light in the room, his fingers hovering over the keys, police database shining in bright letters across it. He had hacked in again and he was tracing a car, a very specific car, an Aston Martin to be precise, registered under a name that was very much not James Mallory. James Bond. James Bond owned this Aston Martin and it was currently parked outside of the Dorchester Hotel in London.

Next stop: The Dorchester Hotel, London.

\---------------------------------------

Bullets rang across the lobby, embedding themselves into marble pillars, and Benjamin stood with his back to one of them, his heart hammering in his chest. A flash of a smart tuxedo shot past him, gun in hand, and then it stopped, looked at him, and floundered. There was a growl of irritation and the man grabbed him by the wrist and held it behind him.  
‘Mr. Mallory. Wh—What are you do—’

‘Benjamin. Shut up and get down.’

The boy dropped to the floor, on his front, and Bond stood over him. Only four more shots rang out that night, three hit a man Benjamin could only assume was their target, their enemy—and oh how he shivered in delight—and one very narrowly missed Bond’s thigh, screeching past them and into the wall. Puddles of blood marred the white of the marble floors, staining them, and Benjamin was shocked, too stunned even to push himself to stand from the floor, all until a rough, calloused hand yanked him up.

‘What are you doing here, Benjamin?’

‘I—I came to find you?’

‘Why?’

‘What are you?’

Bond’s eyebrows knitted in the centre and he huffed, shoving the boy towards the front door. Neither of them answered the questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow this took so long dont hate me


End file.
